


Jizzed In My Pants

by anotherjadedwriter



Series: Wasteland Bros Mixtape [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Hypersensitivity, Kissing, M/M, handjobs, oversensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherjadedwriter/pseuds/anotherjadedwriter
Summary: Junkrat's cute, the motherfucker. Roadhog is good at ignoring it for the most part, but then he starts feeling emotions, which is even worse than thinking a skinny asshole is cute.





	Jizzed In My Pants

**Author's Note:**

> theres not like a lotta sex its jsut. a weird kink thing for me and emotions. so

Their trail’s long gone cold by the time they finally decide not to rough it any longer and use some of the cash they’d been getting from minor stick-ups to get a motel room. It’s a seedy, filthy little shithole somewhere outside of whichever city they’d fled last (Queens, maybe?), but it’s a good transition from sleeping in ditches and dumpsters to sleeping in rooms with electricity. The TV only half works.

Roadhog is outside, walking back slowly from where he’s hidden his bike, by the time he wonders if he should just get a separate room. Rat hasn’t seemed to pick up that Hog watches him, but he’ll have to eventually, and, well. Even if the wasteland hellscape of Australia wiped most issues with people dating someone of the same gender out of everyone’s general consciousness, that didn’t mean that there weren’t a few dedicated bigots out there, and Junkrat’s just impressionable enough to become one.

Though, that line of questioning leads to another, inevitably. Has Rat ever slunk off to meet some dame in an alley? He had time, now that it was agreed they were mutually reliable. Hog hasn’t been keeping too close an eye on him, but every time he turned around, damn near, there was the skinny prick practically crawling on him to see what he’s doing or snatch food off his plate. Sort of a pet/wasteland survival partner all in one.

Pushing Junkrat’s apparent disinterest in sex of any kind aside, he swipes the key on the door and steps in, freezing at the scene that reaches his eyes and ears at once. Porn on the TV, low enough that he can only just hear it over the usual ringing that came with using a firearm as often as he did, and over the fake moans and slapping of skin, there was another, higher, reedy noise, from the bed. Junkrat is still as fully clothed as he ever was, on the bed, with what looks like a mound of pillows under his hips. He notices Roadhog soon, but there are a few desperate grinds before he sits up and scrambles off the bed, seeming to forget he had taken his leg off and landing with a thud on his ass.

“Little privacy?” He barks, giving up on the remote and just glaring at Hog’s silhouette in the doorway. “Nobody ever teach ya to fuckin’ knock?”

Hog is somewhere else, staring at a crack in the far wall and remembering, vaguely, that Junkrat grew up alone in the wastes. Of course he did… this. It’s almost sad. No, it’s sad, pitiful even, that he doesn’t know how to get off, at least not without messing his shorts. Maybe that’s why he seems to actually wash his clothes, even though he doesn’t often bathe himself. Hog shakes his head to try and clear it, looking down at him as he stands, his stance uncomfortable and hiding a boner that doesn’t wane even with him having been caught. He shakes his head again, lumbers past the bed, and squeezes into the bathroom, clicking the door shut and locked behind himself.

This is a lot to unpack. The porn on the TV is still playing, and after a minute he hears the dialogue rewind and the same wheezy noises start up again. And he’s standing in the bathroom. He settles himself against the wall, sitting with his legs splayed and his head back, doing his best to block out the sounds so he wouldn’t have to get ‘interested’ as well.

Luckily for him, they cut out after only a few minutes, ending with a gasp of “Fuck!” and the TV being shut off. Unsurprising that he has no stamina. Hog even lets himself wonder if Jamison had kissed anyone, his mind trailing down a path he’d never considered; sure, he jacked off, and sometimes he thought about his partner, but when he let himself think about that, it was just them fucking.

This time, he imagines kissing him. He’d need to be blindfolded, lest he peek and make it impossible. “Come here.” would be enough to get him over, and he might even sit still for the blindfold if asked to. Hog would lean down, hold his face in place, and kiss him, as chaste as he could manage. Rat would be game, in this fantasy, and he’d follow him back for another kiss, sloppily shoving his tongue into Roadhog’s mouth. Maybe he’d even moan, wrapping his arms around Roadhog’s neck and pressing himself flush to his front.

The heat in his face is anything but arousal; he wants it, not just the sex but the intimacy, the trusting closeness of being his first kiss. As his thoughts go on, he imagines kissing his neck, his chest, laying him back on a bed much plusher than the futon on a boxspring they have here. Rat would be making those high, reedy noises, his hips shifting, his head pressed back against the mattress, his eyes closed behind the blindfold, back pulled up in an arch. He’d peel his shorts down, kissing the line of pale hair from his navel to his cock, and–

“Oi, are you finished?” Junkrat pounds the door with what must be his metal hand, and Roadhog lurches to his feet with a snort. “C’monnnnn, I gotta go!”

Snorting again, Roadhog flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and is almost knocked over by Junkrat rushing in, snapping at him to get out and shut the door. The porn is paused, so he changes it to the local news, ostensibly to keep track of if the local law knows where they are, but mostly because he doesn’t really care to see a still image of someone’s gaping… Orifice. The pillow on the bed is probably clean, but he drops it outside the door anyway.

As he sits on the bed, leaning to take his boots off, the faucet kicks on, so he loosens the straps to give his face a chance to breathe before fixing it as Junkrat walk/hops out, his hand very obviously the only clean part of him. Well, that and the end of his amputated leg. He makes it to the other side of the bed, and neither of them mention it. It won’t make any difference, probably.

Though, knowing that Junkrat probably has never been really touched makes Roadhog’s thoughts about him in any carnal sense shift, less pressing him into the wall and choking him until his smug face turns blue, and more just touching him. It’s a strange, almost heartfelt thing, imagining him washed and laying comfortably on a bed, breathing soft little moans as he’s worked open, slowly, pushed closer and closer to his eventual release, and laying pliant and sensitive while Roadhog finishes, listening to his virgin-like pleas to finish, so everyone likes it, please.

It is, in all honesty, kind of disgusting.

Junkrat knows the routine, and so he yanks all but the pillows off the mattress and makes a mound on the floor to sleep on, leaving the mattress for his companion, because they would both be hating it if Roadhog was stiff from sleeping on the floor. He doesn’t say anything, so Hog just finishes with his boots, places his weapons lovingly on the nightstand, and lays down, huffing through his mask. Shoulda got his own room.

Just as dawn breaks through the curtains, Roadhog’s eyes open behind his mask, and he sits up, blinking the remnants of a dream out of his head. Junkrat, splayed before him, pressing kisses to the side of his mask, begging.

He grunts, lumbering past the lump on the floor that he assumes is Junkrat himself and into the bathroom. Rat is probably awake, but he knows well enough not to bust the door in. He’ll probably crawl into the bed and roll around, actually. Whatever he wants to do, Hog isn’t all that concerned.

He washes his face, deals with the rest of his morning grooming, but foregoes the shower; they’d have to get moving before too much longer, and he doesn’t want to have to rush into his overalls soaking wet. Again. The longer Junkrat gets left to his own devices in a room full of malfunctioning electronics, the higher their chance of being spotted, fleeing an explosion.

No, he isn’t in the mood for that. He wipes the sleep from his eyes, fixes his mask, and heads back into the main area of the room, again freezing when he sees what his companion is doing.

This time, he’s sleeping. He’s on his side, settled, as expected, on the bed, his face turned to the pillows and his flesh arm pulled up over his head, the blanket only covering his chest, twisted around him like a performer on silks. The kid sleeps like the dead, when he sleeps, though he promises that he does in fact wake up when he very much doesn’t. His leg twitches, matching a small gasp, followed by a slow breath.

He looks peaceful. Roadhog can’t bring himself to disturb him, not when it’s been a solid week since he saw Junkrat do anything more than twitch through a half-hour nap. They can wait. Their trail is cold, he’s not building anything, and there’s nothing they’re moving towards, anyway. He scuffs his boots to the questionable chair, then decides to sit on the bed. Junkrat wouldn’t wake up.

Roadhog sits, and Junkrat sits up, gasping sharply. “Whazzat?” He slurs, still half asleep, and Hog finds himself pushing him back down before even thinking about it. “Hog, Hoggy, what’s, what?”

“Nothin’.” Damn Rat for looking cute and damn Roadhog twice for thinking it. “Go back to sleep.” How is he going to be able to handle  these rogue emotions if Rat was going to be all sleep-slurred and letting him lay him back. “Gonna get some breakfast.”

Again, he sits up, blinking a few times. “Nah, ‘mwake.” He yawns, groping for his hand to put it on, until Roadhog pushes him back down again. “Fuckin’, stop, ‘m not tired.” He yawns again, as though driving the point home.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.” Hog huffs, and this time Junkrat stays laying down, narrowing yellow eyes at him like he’s doing something despicable. “I’ll bring you something.”

Junkrat mutters a little, but by the time Roadhog’s boots are on, he’s dead asleep, this time curled on his other side, a pillow pressed over his face. Weird, but at least he might not be so scattered after a good sleep.

Roadhog stands, but pauses before leaving to look back at Junkrat’s almost-comatose form. He looks different, with his face relaxed and at least some of the soot rubbed onto the blankets and sheets. He looks, again, cute. And that’s terrible. Roadhog needs to drown these emotions out immediately, or he might start mooning over Junkrat, getting him flowers, and that would be the worst. Even if Junkrat were interested, Hog can only imagine how he would act. Probably call him ‘daddy’ and expect presents. No, he isn’t taking that chance.

The diner is seedier than the motel, as evidenced by not a single head turning when he sits at a booth. The waitress looks bored as she pours his coffee and lists the specials, and he orders simply: ham omelet, bacon, orange juice, all sized up by three, and whatever the biggest plate they have otherwise is when he gets the check. She walks away without another word, and that’s fine. It gives him time to think about how his life has come to what it has, vis a vis having a cute twink in his bed and leaving to get shitty breakfast instead of even kissing him.

And then, he’s thinking about kissing him. Rat has thin lips, and a pointy face, but he’s handsome. His eyes are intimidating, bright and shining, and his hairline is weirdly nice, even receeded as it is. Hog can imagine it. He can imagine all sorts of things, really, but he limits himself to kissing, for now. When his food comes out, he imagines nothing, because if he lets himself get attached, he’ll just end up dead somewhere.

Or, worse, he’ll end up loving the bastard.

His meal passes with no issue, and as requested, a plate of what he assumes is chicken fried steak comes with the check. He drops the money on the table, leaving a tip for the still-bored waitress, and walks back to the motel, box in hand. Junkrat is still asleep, but it’s late enough now that Roadhog wants to get moving. Safer that way.

Sitting on the end of the bed wakes him again, though this time he just twists and drags himself over to lay to one side. “What’s that?” He reaches, and Roadhog lifts it away.

“Take a shower.”

Now he’s awake, fully, sitting up and glaring. Roadhog peers down at him, taking a look at his chest and hips while Junkrat works himself up. “What the fuck? It’ll get cold. Just give it.” He reaches again, grabbing for the box and almost falling off the bed.

“Take a shower.” Roadhog gently pushes him back upright, feeling every rib as he does. “There’s a microwave.”

It’s tense and silent for a few moments, with Junkrat looking like he might lunge again, and then he stands and hops to the bathroom, muttering the whole time. “Lardass. Better not eat it. Like I fuckin’ need any more radiation. Cunty. Bring me the fuckin’ chair, will you?” He tries for a snarl but fails, probably because he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, maybe because he knows that he won’t be able to get it without cracking his skull on the tiles. He looks almost abashed, which is strange.

It’s been a while since they had any reason to act like they were embarrassed of each other.

Roadhog nods, setting the box on the bed and following him into the cramped bathroom. Junkrat leans on the wall while the chair is placed, then frowns to himself. “Where’s the soap?” He looks around, and huffs. Counter.

“Get in, I’ll hand it to you.” Roadhog orders. Its meant to be an offer, but his tone is gruff. At least the skinny prick complies, kicking his shorts off and flopping into the chair. Nothing either of them hasn’t seen. The tiny bottles are all dropped into his lap, with the knowledge that if he can build an IED with one hand in the dark, he can wash his hair with one hand in a low-light bathroom. “Get behind your ears.”

Junkrat twists the hot handle violently, then yelps as surprisingly cold water pours onto him. “Thanks for the reminder, mummy! Get out.” They’ve had this conversation too many times, but now, there might be, under the soot and scowl, the beginnings of a blush on his cheeks. Maybe Roadhog is projecting.

Better that Roadhog ignores that, so he just walks out, closing the door behind himself. Then he sets Rat’s limbs inside the bathroom, so he doesn’t have to deal with too much more hopping, especially on a wet floor. The bed creaks under his weight, but he doesn’t lay down for a nap. He didn’t want to deal with the panic Rat falls into if he feels uncovered for more than a minute. Even if nothing happens, he gets weird.

Besides, his curiosity has finally won him over, and he pulls up the paid-for list on the TV. He reads it out loud, under his breath.

“Bottom Sluts Cumdump 6, ‘These sexy twinks are just begging for every cock that walks in. Their asses get filled with cum and their cocks get milked dry, over and over.’ Huh.” That was a surprise. He’d always pegged Rat as a costumes type. Maybe the kind who wants Omnics while still hating them.

The fact that it is indeed a gay porn hits him when he’s twenty minutes into the local newscast. He’s not terribly surprised; Hog’s never been great at telling what someone’s sexuality is, and figures it’s safest to just assume nothing about anyone, ever. You’re less likely to step on toes if you don’t consider it, and not getting close to people has been a blessing more than a side-effect of that train of thought.

In a way, knowing this now just kind of makes him uncomfortable. Knowing about Rat is, well, not straight in whichever way, it’s uncomfortable. It almost feels like seeing him naked, but more naked than he is the times Hog does actually see him naked. Like an internal view that makes him think too much about Rat’s childhood.

Was he scared when he discovered he liked boys? Was he defensive about getting close to men? Was he scared of junkers? Maybe that’s why he seemed to talk to ladies more. Did he have moments where he wanted to ask someone but didn’t?

Hog huffed, frowning. If any of that were true, why would he just leave the porn on the TV? Junkrat probably just wasn’t as interested in getting fucked than he was in not getting caught by a junker that wants him dead. Though, still, the romanticized imaginings of Junkrat opening up about some nonexistent hardship caused by him wanting to fuck some dude and getting beat up, it appeals.

He’s too old for this shit. Too old for any of it.

The news doesn’t mention them, at least. That, and, Junkrat is actually bathing. Two positives to outweigh his sudden influx of emotions for the skinny prick. Or at least soften the blow, because the want to kiss him (protect him, hold him, have him close) doesn’t leave Roadhog, even as he starts gathering his things. Absolutely disgusting. He thought he cut that part out of himself, but like so many other tumors, it must have grown back.

Rat saunters out, acting like bathing is on par with fancy grooming, and grabs his things, slinging his harness on his back so it settles over his familiar tanlines. Hog notices, after a moment, that Junkrat is avoiding his eyes. He also notices that his hair is limp against his skull, and he reaches a hand out to tousle it, because it looks weird when there’s no volume to it, and Junkrat – Jamie, he yelps.

He yelps, spins in place, and slaps at Hog’s hand. He’s definitely flushed, though. That’s obvious, without a layer of soot half an inch thick. Not surprised flushed, though, blushing like he probably had been when Roadhog walked in on him the day previous. He watches, idly curious, as Rat’s already-ineffective slaps turn into just him holding his wrist, and then that flush is deepening, and his hands drop.

“What?” Hog asks, because he’s never known Junkrat to just stop attacking something, especially when he’s losing. “You hit your head?”

As Roadhog starts feeling his skull for bumps (last time he hit his head Hog had to drag him in mostly dead from a concussion, he’s not letting the little bastard get off just saying it’s nothing again), Junkrat squirms. He’s twitched plenty, hopped on one leg despite wearing the other, twisted his fingers so hard they popped off, and generally bounced around getting in the way, but squirming is a new one. It feels different, though Hog doesn’t tend to put his hands on anyone. Outside of combat, anyway.

The fact that he’s got a hand on Junkrat’s skull is, in itself, a surprise to them both.

“Didn’t hit my head, ya startled me.” He snaps, stepping back. Roadhog lets him go. He’s about to turn, actually, but then Rat shifts his footing, tugs at the waist of his pants. “Fucker.”

Behind his mask, Roadhog’s eyes widen. Of course. He grew up in the fucking wastes, alone, and he got off humping pillows. Touch-starved on top of it just makes sense, even forgetting the way he seems to gravitate closer but avoid actual contact.

Roadhog steps closer, into his personal space again, and Rat steps back, slips on the shitty carpet, and lands on the bed with a thud. And now it’s glaringly obvious that he’s got a boner. Roadhog swallows, then reminds himself that he’s giant and powerful and that Rat is, at least, bi and desperate. That he got a boner from a light touch, and that he makes those noises that are terrible and perfect, and that they’ve both had better reasons to leave and haven’t.

Rat licks his lips. “Close your eyes.” Mako’s voice surprises them both, apparently. Softer than usual. Jamie even listens. “Keep ‘em closed.” Mako steps in and Jamie trembles, squirms, looks like he’s having trouble keeping still. Looks cute again, that motherfucker.

Even if his eyes are closed, Mako puts a hand over Jamie’s eyes before removing his mask. He falls back, tugging uncomfortably at his harness, but doesn’t kick. “Takin’ too long.” He hisses, red to his ears, and Mako can’t help but laugh, unmuffled by the mask, and lean in to kiss him now that he’s horizontal.

He has to go at an angle, what with his gut, but he manages it, pressing the lightest kiss he can to Jamie’s lips. They’re surprisingly soft, for all they’re bitten, thin but they fit his face, and he shivers so hard it’s hard to believe it’s a New York summer and they’re in an AC-less motel room. Jamie whimpers when he pulls back, so he leans in again, stroking his thumb over his sharp cheekbone.

Mako takes his time, first just enjoying the way that Jamie breathes out through his nose, learning how to handle it, his hands twitching as they rest on his sides. Stroking his fingers over Jamie’s throat gets a high whine, and then he moans into Mako’s mouth, sloppily shoving his tongue back towards Mako’s. He sobs, shaking and on the edge of an apology when Mako pulls back, but shudders into a desperate grind against nothing when he kisses, slow, lingering, down his throat.

He’s gorgeous. Mako’s chest feels tight thinking about this, the fact that he’s the only one to make him fall apart so wonderfully, so completely. Jamie sobs, twisting until Mako pins his hip to the bed with one hand, when he kisses his ear, moves down his jaw.

“Fuckin’, gotta hurry up, I’m, gonna blow, Hoggy, Hog.” He whines, rolling against the grip on his hip again. “Mako, please.”

Whatever he might have continued to ask is muffled by another kiss, Mako’s hand sliding down to cup his cock through his shorts. He knows it would be too much to ask for him to help, too much to expect him to even really consider the half-hard cock pressed against his thigh. Maybe another time.

Jamie’s hips rock against his hand desperately, his hands clawing at his back and his kisses getting sloppier than even before. Mako’s hand slides under the band of his pants and Jamie yelps, shudders, and he’s coming. He babbles through it, against kisses he begs for, his hips moving fast and hard and needy, his eyelashes tickling the inside of Mako’s palm. He’s lovely, his neck arched out enticingly, his lips bruised red and wet, Mako can’t help but torture him a little, can’t help but kiss his neck, his face, ease him down with lighter contacts.

“Fuck.” He whimpers, chasing Mako’s lips as much as he can to kiss him again. “Fuck me, Mako, Christ. I’m gonna fuckin’ pass out.”

Mako breathes against his neck for a second, but sits back. “Keep ‘em closed.” He slowly lifts his hand, and Jamie looks too fucked out to think about disobeying. Or he knows the tenuous agreement they’d apparently settled into. He pulls his mask back on, tightens it down, and breathes softly, catching his breath. He hadn’t even gotten hard, but he felt better than he had in ages, in ages of getting off. “You okay?”

Rat grunts. “Didn’t even get naked.” He sits up, eyes open and fingers (flesh) running over his neck, his face, everywhere Roadhog’s lips had been. His face is still red. “Gonna have to work on that.” He decides, standing and shuffling to the bathroom, his gait more awkward than normal.

Hog feels pretty good, all things considered. Not bad.

**Author's Note:**

> this took me like... a week to do. was it worth it? probably not lmfaoooo... I'm gonna do one for "I Just Had Sex" too tho no one can stop me from writing weird nsfw shit  
> if u also jizzed in ur pants, mb buy me a coffee? https://ko-fi.com/A781PZJ  
> thxxx


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